Ellen stared hard at Mister Trout from her dining room chair, teacup and saucer firmly in hand, though she had no idea how she kept so calm. He took her silence as some kind of confirmation of a denial.
The plate of food he had produced from her kitchen sat on the table in silent accusation of all the meals Ellen had failed to cook in that very same kitchen. During their arguments, Trout had lead her to the kitchen, and without missing a single beat in his side of the very odd debate, had culled her pantry of all of the foods she had purchased but never used. Odd moods and sudden fancies while out at many a call to the grocery had aired itself before her eyes and under the quick, wide, and solidly calloused little hands of Mister Trout were becoming a passable feast. The incredibly random assortment of foods looked amazing to her; nothing she could ever have imagined one could do with some of these ingredient combinations would have been called “food.” But she was so glad to be wrong; the foods laid out on her table made a light, but very tasty middle of the night snack.
“I know who he is, and that he is awake, and I came to help him.” His brows beetled like champs, almost completely obscuring his eyes from view, as he reached from where he sat to grab a triangle of toasted cheese, dried apricot and sardine sandwich. “I may be his only hope!” His Cymric accent popping about her ears as he slid from his chair to pace her flat.
“Or possibly yours, for that matter, if it matters, as a matter of fact.”
She watched him chew his sandwich slice as she nibbled at a bit of a spicy carrot salad he had produced from the scattering of randomly selected foods in less than three minutes. Where did this dressing come from? Do I even have honey… and how did this paprika get here?
Like most people, Nurse Lindsey had many ingredients in her kitchen she could never remember purchasing. Some days she fantasized they arrived by spontaneous generation, or maybe the pepper got lonely and phoned in some friends to stay over; whatever the cause, she never recalled when she might have ever in her life had purchased such things as minted vinegar syrup. Yet here it was, being used to make a very tasty and thick tea.
Something clicked suddenly, “You know him? You really know who he is? How?
She paused, waiting while he chewed on a fried dumpling made with fish roe. Where had THAT come from? And when had he fried it?
"No-one else has a clue, yet you have the final word on the big mystery man all the press have been hounding the hospital for the last year?” Ellen couldn’t quite get her mind around the idea that Mister Trout, the meter high hypochondriac, might actually know more about the biggest secret in her life than did she. It almost felt like a betrayal, if only Ellen could figure out who had betrayed her. And why? And... Oh, for the love of GOD this parsnip salad is amazing! When have I EVER bought a parsnip in my life?
“I don’t have his ACTUAL name,” he held up a small, heavy fingered hand to stop her interrupting his explanation. “But I know his family, you might say. I sometimes work for his great-great-great…well, his grandfather, ye might say. Yah, I’ve dealt with his people for years. More than a few in fact. But I doubt any real news sites have been asking after him for a while now. The world has moved on, the next big thing, the next summer blockbuster, and the newest exploits of the next big pea brained celebrities. If you read the news feeds more, you would have known that most people have put him and that whole nasty incident behind them; now it’s nothing more than some trivia question for a future streaming show.”
She blinked slowly once at this revelation, and then she let it slide past her as irrelevant. “How do you know his family, but not his name?” Her anger began to resurface again from the darker places under her astonishment. “Why not just tell his family where he is, and they can come to Hospital to claim him? Where…”
Reaching up slightly to set his own tea cup and saucer onto the nearest windowsill, he smiled at Ellen. Both knobby little hands rose in supplication, he turned fully to her with a look of enduring patience on his ruddy, open face, his salt and ginger hair and beard making a shining halo about his large head.
“Ms. Lindsey…” He started and was abruptly cut off.
“Nurse Lindsey, if you please.” The iron look in her eyes must have gotten through to Trout as suddenly he began anew.
“Nurse Lindsey, I know you have so many questions; but, just for the sake of argument let’s just say I have a limited amount of time to get you to help me into the hospital and up to his room. I need to know why he was found where he was and I need to know the whole why of it, every last bit, as well.” His face took on a sincere cast that she had never seen on him in the past. Even when trying to trick his way into St Albans with some made up malady, he never looked as believable as he did in that moment.
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Trout went on in that deathly earnest voice, “He has come a long way from his family, and those of us who know them well think it is a VERY bad thing, indeed. His accident, as the news put it, was a terrible thing. But most of those interested people out there in the world who know where he came from don’t like that he made it back as far as he did. I’m not saying they’re wrong, he might be a bloody great arse, AND" he held up a single finger here, "...he may be coming here now to rain holy terror down upon us all, though I doubt that last bit, truly. BUT, but, and listen up as I say this, I am willing to hear him out before I make that determination. I can guarantee others aren’t as open minded as me, and have already come to town with loaded guns, and no inhibitions, as it were. You’ve seen the odd tall fellows about, yes? Tall men, white suits, they have nasty looks on their faces all the time? Like their kipper sammies have all gone sour in their lunch kits? Well, now, Nurse Ellen Lindsey, they’re here for him, too. I bet they’re just looking around to see if he has any friends about before they make some move to take him from your care.”
“That's just silly, he’s in a coma. He has been since we brought him into the burn unit.” She rolled her eyes to heaven at the general thickness of some people.
So did, oddly, Mister Trout.
“He has been awake for a while now. Anyone with a nose for the signs can tell. For instance, you are completely covered with some kind of charm to keep you from noticing…something. His injuries or his health? And another charm, a strong one, but I don’t know what it is. I’m not too up on his people’s ways.” His brow furrowed as she graced the ceiling with another look. “Just take it from me, will you? We can’t let him out without knowing what his plans are. Maybe he’s on holiday, but I doubt it. Who would want to start a vacation with that level of blood and pain, yeh?”
She wasn’t going to buy any of it, not for one moment. This was silly in the worst way, she would never want him as a guest in her home, certainly not after midnight; yet here he was. And, now it seems, he’s a raving loony to match.
Slowly a sly look took over his features, as he came up with a way to get this moving. He took three more of the small carved stones from his pockets, and placed them around the platter of little mince pies he had made in her toaster oven.
And where had the dough for those come from?
“Look, why don’t you help me out by taking me to the hospital. I’ll consent to see any brain doctor you want me to see, I’ll even pay for the taxi ride. Really, my treat. And you can spend the rest of the night mooning over your mystery man.” As he said this last he struck the table a sharp blow. The platter rose a foot from the surface of the table, and hovered without spilling a single crumb.
Her flinch gave the game away; Trout knew he had struck a chord. What chord, no idea, but a chord was all he had with which to work, and work with it he would, even if it was a metaphorical F-Chord.
Taking a blind stab, he said; “And you can spend all night talking to him at his bedside about what an irritating little scuttler I am.”
Something in that sentence grabbed Ellen by the heart, or the brain, or whatever else she had that may at this moment have been grab-able, and made her eyes glaze over as she slowly nodded. Trout slowly reached up, and plucked the pitcher from where it had been slowly rotating above the surface of the table, gently placing it back down as he scooped up the three stones and replaced them to his pockets.
Without another word, she stood, and went to get her coat and purse. Heading for the door, it was only when she noticed him not following her that she hesitated as a little of the fog in her mind cleared. Looking back at Mister Trout, she said “hmmm…?”
“I think I need to wait out here, while you go get into some clothes. Nothing personal, mind; but I think we’ll attract less notice if the dwarf walking with the unusually tall woman was see stepping out with an unusually tall, DRESSED woman. Or do
you disagree?”
Her face flushed as she noticed she was still wearing her pajamas. "I see." She said, as she went numbly back to her room to change from her night clothes and robe into pants and a blouse, if she had been listening she might have heard Mister Trout chuckling under his breath at the general suggestibility of those poor souls held under spells and charms.
“Barnum had it right…I’ll just pack these tarts for the road, though, shall I?” Trout sat in a soft chair in the not too large main room of the small flat waiting for Ellen to dress herself. Wondering about other peoples’ motives was always a bad way to bet, but in the last sixty or so years, bad bets had paid out as well as any others had for the nimble little man.
Nothing to lose, she thought, straightening her collar and adjusting the straps of her very serviceable cold weather boots, I might as well join in the coming fray…